


AND IF WISHES CAME TRUE…  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

by astrums



Category: Mahoutsukai no Yakusoku, Mahoyaku, Promise of Wizard, 魔法使いの約束 | Mahoutsukai no Yakusoku | Promise of Wizard (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Self indulgent oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrums/pseuds/astrums
Summary: And it would have been sweet, if it could have been me.
Relationships: FigaOz, Figaro & Oz (Mahoutsukai no Yakusoku), Figaro x Oz, Figaro/Oz (Mahoutsukai no Yakusoku), OzFiga
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	AND IF WISHES CAME TRUE…  IT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

**Author's Note:**

> Or a self indulgent oneshot of Oz and Figaro reminiscing about the past and talking about the present. This may be a little OOC, but I hope it still is enjoyable. I wanted to get it off my chest-. So without further ado...

It was an unusual, quiet night. The magic headquarters seemed to be submerged in a deep slumber, together with the wizards residing inside its walls. Each common area, illuminated by the silver light of the moon sneaking in through the enormous windows gave off a sense of peculiar peacefulness that was hard to find when everyone there was awake. 

The footsteps in the long corridor leading to the rooms’ area barely echoed, as if the person guilty of them was trying hard to preserve that serene atmosphere. It was proper of Oz, too, not making a ruckus whenever he walked into a room… or at least not anymore. It was not necessary, given his reputation.  
However, more often than not, the most powerful wizard in the world didn’t grace the headquarters with his overnight presence. It was actually harder than one might think finding him there, but judging by his current looks, it almost felt like this was indeed his home. He was heading back to his room after leaving it earlier in the night due to the inability to fall asleep, unused to the mattress and the pillows on this bed. Oz had gone for a walk outside, in hopes that the silence of his surroundings would help him get tired enough to sleep without interruption, failing miserably. After that, he had gone to the kitchen, coming back with a warm chamomile cup of tea. 

He was so absent-minded while smelling the liquid inside the cup in his hand, that he almost didn’t realise there was someone else awake, lying in the large, rustic cushioned bench near the library, right in front of one of the biggest windows of the mansion. The moment Oz caught sight of the silhouette by the corner of his eye, he moved the cup of tea away from his face, speaking in his usual deep but calm voice.  
—You shouldn’t be sleeping there, it’s an uncomfortable bench. The rooms are not that far from here, go back to yours.—  
Of course he didn’t know who it was, but his first guess had been Rutile, probably drunk out of his mind, not even knowing where he was lying around. But, much to his surprise, the voice that answered him was one he knew almost better than his own. 

—Oz? What a… rude way to say things, speaking as if you own the bench. Had it been a young one, you may have made them cry. We have to fix that tone of yours.— 

Figaro’s playful words resonated in the corridor, not loud enough to cause a scandal, not low enough for Oz to ignore them. It was his voice, yes, but he sounded more tired than usual, as if he was struggling to speak. Perhaps it was his bizarre injury acting up. But, as the great pretender he was, the moment the long-haired wizard entered his line of vision, he slowly half sat down, giving Oz a small smile. The tall, poker faced man was wearing less layers of clothing than usual; a thin, wine coloured long sleeved shirt with a couple of open buttons on the chest area, black comfortable pants and equally black stay-at-home shoes.  
Even if they were evident sleeping clothes, Figaro marvelled to his heart’s content. —The great Oz, staying here overnight? That is indeed a rare sight. I wonder if this too is a secondary effect of the Great Catastrophe~?— 

To that, Oz gave a long sip to his cup of tea, standing right in front of the other wizard, stoic face showing discontent by pursuing his lips and frowning ever so slightly. —But you speaking rubbish left and right just because you have a mouth is as normal as ever.— He retorted, giving Figaro the stink eye for a couple of seconds before turning around. —You look like shit and stink of alcohol. Go back to your room. Goodnight, Figaro.— 

Before Oz took another step away, the doctor grabbed him by the arm. His grip was not strong, if the other man wanted to get away, he could do so effortlessly. Figaro hated the sleepless, lonesome nights, where everything there was, was him and the oversized moon looking down on him, making his body feel ill and weak. Even if he tried not to act so desperate, the way his long fingers circled around Oz’s forearm was almost a silent plea, speaking for itself. 

—Wait, don’t go. I know you are having trouble sleeping, and so am I, so why not keep each other company? There’s no harm in that, and it’s been quite a while since we spent some time together, right?—  
The free, slightly shaky hand patted the now empty side of the bench, inviting the man with crimson eyes to sit by his side.

Under the moonlight, Figaro looked almost like a spectrum; pale, thinner than a leaf, with ashen lips and green eyes losing his usual witty spark. Despite the many centuries of knowing one another, Oz had never seen him like this, and his stomach sank uncomfortably at the realisation that this was not due to whatever he was drinking. Before he even had processed his own thoughts, he had already walked next to the bench, sitting in the empty space with a “clank” made by the porcelain cup hitting the side table. Oz pretended not to see the way Figaro’s lips curved up in a feline way, contrary to the relief that his emerald eyes reflected for an ephemeral instant. A long sigh escaped his own lips, while he found a comfortable position on the bench.

—It’s not like I enjoy your company.— Oz’s voice was low like a whisper, and his ruby eyes focused on the moon outside the window. Figaro’s musical laughter echoed in his ears for a second, while he crashed his shoulder against Oz’s, as a way of complaining.  
—Hey, don’t be a liar. I doubt lying is something you want to teach to young Arthur, so don’t say that kind of thing with a straight face, okay? It surely gives off a bad example…— He paused for a moment, covering a cough with a tissue, eyeing his companion’s choice of beverage. —…more importantly, what in the world are you drinking? We both know that the best solution for insomnia is a good glass of wine… or many. Shylock always says so, and who are we to disagree?—  
As he said that, he grabbed a second glass from his side table, as if he was expecting company all along, and poured some of his preferred liquor on it, handing it over to Oz, who grabbed it after considering it for a couple of minutes. 

After a small sip where he analysed the flavour, his crimson eyes finally settled on Figaro’s figure, twirling around the ice inside the glass. He was wearing a forest green sweater and grey pants, looking slim but comfortable on those clothes. The style of them, however, screamed “Southerner”, and on that topic he couldn’t hold back the realisation of something else.  
—After so many years you still drink the same sour liquor. I thought you may have adapted your tastes to Southern life.—  
It was not meant to be an accusation nor a reproaching comment, but with Oz’s lack of social skills, it may have rubbed the wrong way.  
But instead of taking it personal, Figaro laughed once more before drinking a long sip of his own glass. Be it a good or a bad thing, he was used to the other’s brute speaking demeanour.  
—I suppose there are still things even I refuse to give up despite being Doctor Figaro Garcia from Southern Country. The food and drinks there are delicious, don’t get me wrong but the flavours are a bit mild, they don’t suit my tastes that much.— After a pause he continued, with a sardonic smile adorning his own lips. —Is sour liquor not a preference of Oz from Central Country, perhaps~? You used to enjoy this one, in the past.

His eyes wandered all around the room before settling on Oz’s side profile; he had always liked the way his bangs fell disorderly on his forehead, or the way he bit the inside of his lower lip whenever he held any sort of conversation, as an unconscious reaction of a lifetime of selective silence, and the insecurity of saying the wrong thing due to the lack of conversational skills. Figaro had seen all of these little ticks coming to life, staying there as a natural part of Oz, for his own eyes to find them only. Who else had been with Oz this long, if not him?  
Oz felt his gaze, and slowly turned his face towards him, with eyes that seemed cold and distant if you didn’t look close enough, and licked a couple of liquor droplets from the lower lip that he was previously biting while listening to the so-called doctor. 

—I like what I like, the country that people may want to tag next to my name doesn't matter, I doubt those things will change for me…—  
He took another sip from his liquor, turning to face Figaro completely. His greyish hair was disheveled as proof that he had been lying around earlier, the usual smile that never seemed to reach his eyes encompassed his fine features, looking like a statue from a renowned craftsman, and his tired emerald orbs seemed to have regained a little bit of life once he had won some company; it was impossible for Oz not to note these details, however small they may be, like an unconscious reflex. Figaro was the same as always, and at the same time, he also felt like looking at a stranger. As if both of them were just wearing the skin of someone they used to know.  
—… besides, I never wanted to be anyone else but me: Oz. But you can’t say the same thing. Since it’s been so long… I will ask. Where did that “doctor” thing came from anyways? We spent centuries together and yet sometimes I feel like I truly don’t know this… you.— 

He was not used to speaking so many words altogether. This mighty wizard always was a man of few words, but each time, it seemed like the things he was used to had no value when it came to Figaro, since whatever the circumstances, he found himself speaking more, not just in the matter of amount, but also in the comfortableness of his speech, or the topics of conversation. Still, hearing him speak that much was a surprising factor even for the doctor himself, who couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in startle, finishing his liquor in one go before refilling both glasses. 

—Hey, I studied hard to earn that title, don’t you think it suits me well~? On top of that, Figaro: former world conqueror and side dictator, is not the type of title I’m looking for in my new presentation card. Besides…we have been alive for so damn long that I think it will be a waste to be the same person all the time, when we can experience being on “different skins” whenever we please.—  
With his next words, he casted away his sight, drinking a long sip before speaking again. Perhaps it was the flavour of the liquor mixing in, but his tone of voice was ever so bitter.  
—Such a long life, almost eternity at the very least should be entertaining. And who says you didn’t change? Since young Arthur got into your life you became someone else. I don’t know much about this Oz from Central, so would you mind indulging me? What do you like to do? Have you had any new lovers? A lot of crazy witches like Chiletta wanted to get in your pants no matter what, and so did a lot of crazy wizards. Perhaps someone caught your fancy in the end?— Contrary to Oz, Figaro could speak on days end, always acting carefree and relaxed, as if he had not a single worry in the world and he enjoyed life to its fullest. His act was so persistent that sometimes, if one didn’t know him as well as Oz did, believing this facade wouldn’t be a difficult thing to do. 

Despite the superficial lightness in the conversation, when the word “lover” suddenly came to Oz’s ears, he twitched uncomfortably on the bench, chugging down the liquor as if doing so would get rid of the sensation of being short of air. It was not in his plans to ask about Figaro’s love life in turn for the questions the so called doctor asked him first; he didn’t care… or betterly put, he didn’t want to know who else had he been with. Tongue tied, given the fact that he suspected the other wizard knew perfectly well Oz never had anyone else as an object for his affections after each of them went their own way, he eyed the grey haired man, not even bothering in making his gaze a kind one. Figaro laughed, but this time it echoed with a bit of satisfaction, maybe with a mix of relief and surprise, too.  
However, his words were always sharp as knives, different to his own demeanour. 

—Cat got your tongue, then? Suddenly you became shy of sharing this sort of thing with an old flare of yours~? Don’t worry, do let me know! The past is the past, you can talk about your new lovers with me.—  
His words, always faking kindness, showed some edge this time around. Despite the fact that he indeed knew in the back of his mind that Oz never had anyone else, he wanted to hear that, not just guess it. So pushing the right buttons was the way to get what he wanted. After drinking a small sip of his glass, his green eyes stabbed at Oz’s red ones, with an eagerness Figaro himself may have not even realised was there to begin with.  
—Or maybe… you are the loyal type now? Perhaps I was lucky to be the only one for you? I wouldn’t believe it such the weird thing. After all at first I only half wanted you for your power and then… well… heh… never mind that. You know both of us have to speak in order to consider this an actual conversation, so, Oz~ which one is it?— 

The long-haired “Central” wizard had been looking away after a while of hearing the other man speak. It was hard (especially for him) to put his feelings into words, but he disliked being cornered like this, although it was a very Figaro thing to do. It was senseless too, in his opinion, asking for answers that you already knew. His heart was pumping against his ribcage, a little bit more strongly than on a regular basis and he blamed it on the alcohol.  
Casting his gaze towards the moon once again, Oz sighed heavily, speaking after some time in silence had passed.  
—...New lovers? Lovers per se? As if I have the time for anything like that. It’s too much work, and a bother—  
His glass was now empty, and in the middle of wanting to keep his mouth busy, he grabbed Figaro’s drink from his hand and drank from it as if it was his own. The doctor didn’t say anything, clearly enjoying this side of Oz. After the stoic man took a few more sips, he looked at the other wizard in the eye.  
It was hard to guess what Oz was thinking due to his personality and demeanour, and exactly that was why Figaro was looking at him as if he was the only thing in the corridor, not wanting to miss a single second.  
Verifying he had the other’s attention, then, Oz drew closer to him, but his usual tone of voice didn’t change.  
—So what if you are still the only one? What was what you said a few moments ago…? “There are things not even I am willing to give up”, so there you have it. Not giving up a bother like you is my business, stop being nosy.— 

After he said that, both of them got quiet. Oz staring at his stolen drink, Figaro staring at the other wizard’s side profile, dumbfounded.  
Perhaps not many people knew, or perhaps back in the day it had been something so obvious nobody even doubted the fact that Oz and Figaro were something. They were always together, after the twins took them in. When Oz went on a rampage conquering half the world, there too was Figaro, standing by him, even aiding his task. Wherever Figaro was, there was Oz as well. 

There were no explanations needed. Not with the way they were always touching, or how they always walked so close to one another their shoulders will rub.  
Not with Oz’s fingers entangling Figaro’s in a crowded room. The private whispers, the snowy evenings making snowmen with baby Arthur right outside Oz’s castle, the somewhat tender storytelling evenings, with Oz laying on Figaro’s lap and a very young Arthur sleeping between the two. The needy, sticky kisses on dark rooms the very instant they happened to be alone, the passionate nights where all they knew was each other’s lips and skin, the fights that ended in entangled legs between bed sheets and encompassed breathes… how words were never needed when actions spoke for themselves, just like they did now, after so many years. 

After their unstoppable fall out, their break up and the eminent separation, Oz never cared to find another person to love like that. After all, he always thought that Northern wizards didn’t know what that word meant, what that feeling was.  
Figaro, on his part, always feared when things were too good to be true, when something good between him and another occurred. And even though he did try to find another pair of arms that gave him comfort and warmth like Oz did, his attempts were futile, perhaps because he never wanted another one to begin with.  
Silence settled heavily now, between the two where only the moon was the witness of unspoken words, of being so close and yet so far. 

Maybe that had been enough remembering for the night, but before Oz could manage to stand up and leave, as he intended to, Figaro was quicker and got up first, reaching out his hand towards the taller wizard. It may seemed out of topic, and too sudden… but the two were always better at communicating with actions instead of words. This time, the doctor didn’t dare to see the other man straight to the face, and his usual soft expression right now was authentic, almost shy had Figaro ever learn what that meant.  
—Well… you want me to stop being nosy, but curiosity kills cats and I’m not one, so you can’t blame me. Now, has Oz from Central finally learned how to dance?—  
The moment Oz held the hand reached out to him, doing so almost automatically and without second thought, Figaro curved his lips into a smile, and pulled him up as well, guiding him towards the library. Using a little bit of magic, he closed the door without letting go of the hand he was holding, and made the old vinyl record start to play a soft, slow melody. 

The “Southern” wizard was physically weak at the moment given his bizarre injury, and maybe dancing was not precisely what the doctor would recommend, but since the doctor was himself, he stood tall and his free arm encircled Oz’s small waist after he had guided the other arms into the right positions, one on Figaro’s back, the other holding his still.  
It was an old song, but both of them have heard it before. It was the first one they ever danced together, when they were younger. Figaro was light on his feet, also known to be a great dancer, and his charm was evident right now as he guided Oz with finesse around the library’s marble floor. Oz, on the other hand was too busy trying not to step on the other wizard, feeling the pit of his stomach crawl with a similar sensation of free falling; dancing was not his forte, but it was always more enjoyable if his dancefloor partner was the man with poisonous green eyes. 

The pair of feet encompassed each other at the soft musical beat, twirling around weightless as feathers, and with each step and hand touch, past memories would flow like river water. There was a crushing nostalgia between the two, creeping in each look they stole from the other; red against green, stoic against carefree.  
It hurts, Figaro thought, but a deeper smile curved his lips up. It hurted, everything they were, everything they would never become.  
Even if Oz had explicitly said Figaro was still the one, and Figaro wanted none but him, both of them knew it was futile, rotten work. No matter the yearning, some things were simply not meant to be, ephemeral as a sigh, unreachable like the stars. And perhaps that was why they were here in this moment, dancing between the ghosts of all their wasted potential, between the skeletons of dead kisses, of hearts beating like one. Like the last goodbye, the last night at the shelter of a fire that burnt bright for too long, and was finally giving everything there was to give. 

Oz was always comfortable in silence, but not this time. He knew that this postponed talk they just had, had been pending for many years, maybe the two had avoided it in fear of losing the last grip of what they used to be. And even if he knew people like them didn’t understand love, he also knew that the pain tearing apart his chest right now was a result of being hurt by it. A silent scar and reminder that they had it, even if they didn’t understand it. Sometimes saying “You are still the one” was a reminder for the heart, not an invitation to get a person back. Even if you wanted to. 

He closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to control the sudden, abnormal lump on his throat, and given that, he ended up tripping. However, Figaro, as smooth as ever, made him twirl instead of letting him fall, speaking at the back of his ear with an evident grin, but the gesture was forced, painful to look at.  
—I thought I taught you better… I guess you couldn’t be talented in everything, that would be a little unfair. You really… still don’t know how to dance.— The whisper that his voice became was tainted with irremediable sadness, the arm around Oz’s waist tightened just a little, and a kiss on his nape escaped Figaro’s lips. This was goodbye, they both knew, but he just couldn’t help himself. 

As if nailed to the place, Oz didn’t move for a while, his back facing Figaro. Once again, he closed his eyes, and slowly locked his fingers on the doctor’s. His voice was even lower than usual, almost like a plea.  
—Don’t kiss me— at first, it echoed like a usual snarl, but the hurt tainting each word was too strong to ignore. Don’t make it harder for the two of us, was what he wanted to say. —I will… learn how to dance on my own.— As he said that, he turned around to face his companion, opening his eyes just a little and leaning forward, close enough that his lips touched Figaro’s whenever he spoke; his words and his actions were contradicting each other.  
—I also thought I taught you better… how to stay, at the very least.— As he said the last part, he stole a kiss from the other’s mouth; nothing big or too presumptuous, rather, a chaste touch as if he had never kissed him before like his life depended on it. —And I know you won’t… but we were something, don’t you think so…? The people we are now don’t fit together, but I guess I just… —  
Speaking against Figaro’s lips was just a temptation to kiss them again, but Oz didn’t, despite not putting distance between them either. If this was the last night, he planned to say everything he didn’t before, be it through dance steps, physical touch or as last resource, words. Words that he evidently was struggling with.  
—… it would have been sweet, if it could have been me the one that made you stay, that’s all.— 

Figaro’s arms hugged Oz’s waist tighter than before, and he swallowed hard forcing the uncomfortable obstruction in his throat down, following the shape of his lips in the delicate friction that the taller wizard had started. His heart sank deeper with each word coming from the other’s mouth, and even if the doctor was used to parting words indeed, they never hurt like they did right now, because… how unbearable it was, saying goodbye to someone that is not going anywhere, except emotionally away from you? How one would deal with sharing the same space than a person that once meant everything and more, that is close enough to touch, and yet so far time seems to transcend whenever you reach out to them?  
He knew this was his fault, the one walking away had always been Figaro, despite it not being precisely what he wanted, but all he ever knew to do. Leaving Oz behind was like running away in the opposite direction of where you are ordering your legs to go, without them attending to your commands; an internal struggle, a senseless inner fight. 

The doctor turned his face away from a brief moment, cleaning a single tear with his shoulder before gathering enough courage and strength to take a step back from Oz, looking his right in the eye, hands still holding him tightly, but losing his grip with each passing second.  
—Please don’t take it personal… I doubt I will ever learn, but if there’s a chance that you will teach yourself how to dance, then maybe someday I may teach myself how to stay… and when I do, I’ll come back to you, if you’ll have me.—  
Maybe he would never be as truthful and sincere as he was right now, speaking of some future possibility as if they even had any; it was good though, saying those words made it a little less bitter, a little more swallable.  
—And you know… I don’t think there’s anyone else out there that would make it but you. It would have been you, Oz…— 

After saying so, he finally let go of his grip on the other wizard’s body, but before leaving the library for real, he leaned in and stole a deep, heartfelt kiss from Oz’s lips. The last one. He elevated his right hand as a “bye” gesture, and the usual smile that never reached his eyes was back on his lips. 

—I‘ll go now… but, see you around, Oz from Central. I wish you a good night.— 

The music had long stopped, and in the room where a second ago were two, only one and the moon remained. Life, no matter how long or short, was made of encounters, of instances. Some people were meant to keep you company until the last breath, some were occasional visitors, leaving your world upside down. Paths crossed, and sometimes you walked hand in hand until the road got narrow enough for just one to pass, and all that remained were the memories.

At least they would always had that. And even if Oz was now by himself, exiting the now quiet library and walking towards the opposite side of the corridor, he murmured, as if he knew the other man would always listen, no matter where he was. 

—Until you learn how to land, Figaro from the South.—

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot is basically a result of my headcanons between these two, and all the yearning and angst. 
> 
> Thanks to miss Taylor Swift for creating Folklore and pushing me to write and post this. This fic is based on The 1, so if you want the whole experience I recommend reading it while playing the song in the background, or before, or after. 
> 
> I also don’t have a proof reader so I hope there were not many mistakes or typos.


End file.
